Trick or Treat

by Richie Tankersley Cusick

  “Will you just leave then, so I can get some sleep?”

  “You’re just trying to make me feel guilty.”

  “I’m not trying to make you do anything except leave —” Conor began coughing again, waving her weakly away. “Go on. Get out of here.”

  Reluctantly Martha nodded, started out the door.

  “Martha —”

  She spun around. “Yes?”

  “Be careful,” he said quietly.

  And she was glad she heard the car then, honking from the driveway. Without another word to Conor she hurried downstairs and out the front door.

  “Blake! Hi!” Martha lifted up her long skirt and dodged the puddles as best she could, trying to hold her shawl over both her cast and her head at the same time. Rain, rain, and more rain — and from the looks of those boiling clouds, there would be another bad storm tonight. “Remind me to call Conor later, okay? He’s really sick and —”

  She broke off and stared.

  Blake had turned off the headlights and the inside of the car was dark. What light there was came from the weak glow of the porchlight, barely trickling over the side of Blake’s car.

  But something was in his window.

  Something hideous sat in the driver’s seat and grinned at her fiendishly from the loose folds of a hooded cape.

  “Blake —” Martha stammered. “What —?”

  “I’m Death,” the thing said. And then it opened her door and beckoned. “Climb on in.”

  The gym had undergone a macabre transformation — dark to the point of obscurity, with only jack-o’-lanterns glowing from the tables and corners; it swarmed with strange unearthly creatures, all trying to keep their identities secret until the midnight unmasking.

  After Martha’s initial shock, Blake had removed the mask for the ride to town, but now both he and Martha were in complete disguises, weaving their way through the packed crowds, trying to find a place to sit. As Blake pulled out her chair, a huge axe descended slowly upon their table, and Martha let out a squeal, finding herself face to face with a black-hooded, black-robed executioner.

  “Greg,” Blake scoffed to Martha, “I’d know him anywhere.”

  The familiar voice inside the hood sounded disappointed. “And I thought I looked so different. Especially with my prop here.”

  “Yeah, well, you’ve never been known for your thinking,” Blake threw back. “You mean they let you in with that thing?”

  “Chaperone’s prerogative,” Greg said. “I get to use it on bad kids.”

  Blake laughed. “Anybody seen Wynn?”

  “The witch over there serving the punch. Complete with missing teeth and warts on the nose. Here, Martha, have a souvenir.” Greg leaned over, holding a match to one of the unlighted candles, then dropped the matchbook in Martha’s lap.

  “Poor Wynn,” Martha slid the matchbook into her pocket, “will she have to do that all night?”

  “What do you mean ‘poor Wynn’?” Greg sounded offended. “I happen to be her date, you know.”

  “Sorry, Greg, but I think she would have preferred Conor,” Martha laughed. “Except he’s down with the flu or something.”

  “Uh-oh. Bad?”

  “Pretty bad. But he’ll be okay, I guess. He won’t let me call the doctor, so there’s not much I can do about it.”

  “And all the girls in Bedford High will be in mourning till he recuperates, no doubt. Blake, old man, you’re definitely losing your touch with the female populace.”

  The black cape rustled, and one black-draped arm slid around Martha’s shoulders. “On the contrary, I haven’t lost a thing. I’m definitely a winner — and you know how I like to win.”

  Funny … that’s what Wynn said about him….

  Blake tapped her lightly on her cast. “Hey, gypsy lady, how about a dance?”

  “Just keep him in line,” Greg advised her. “Put a curse on him if he gives you any trouble.”

  Martha laughed as Blake pulled her to the dance floor. The music was earsplitting and bodies were pressed so close together that it was hard to stay with one partner. It could be anyone…. Martha’s eyes probed the pulsating darkness, the orange jack-o’-lantern grins laughing from the corners. Anyone could be in here, hiding, watching her, waiting….

  Damn you, Conor, you said that just to ruin my evening!

  It could be anyone.

  “Martha —”

  “Oh, Wynn, you scared me to death!”

  “Sorry — my clothes are so black, I kind of blend in, I guess. And no, I didn’t recognize you, but I already saw Blake’s costume —”

  “You made my costume,” Blake corrected her. “You made all our costumes — that’s why they all look so much alike —”

  “They’re wonderful costumes,” Martha laughed.

  “Wynn, get out of here,” Blake said, still trying to dance in spite of the interruption.

  Wynn pointedly ignored him. “How’s Conor?”

  Another pang of guilt. Martha pushed it firmly away. “Actually he’s miserable, but it’s good for him. Makes him more sympathetic to the human condition. Hey, you sound kind of tired — are you okay?”

  “Maybe it’s going around.” Wynn brushed her off. “Anyway, I was up all night and all today decorating this stupid place — I’ll be glad when Halloween’s over.”

  Something in Wynn’s tone alerted Martha, the words that hadn’t been spoken aloud: Halloween — and the shadow of a tragedy. Martha reached out for her friend’s hand. “Why don’t you come sit with us?”

  “I don’t believe this.” Blake stopped dancing. “If I’d known you two wanted to come together —”

  “I can’t.” Somewhere beneath the green witch face Wynn smiled. “I’m too busy pouring punch and keeping the trays filled to visit — but stop by the table sometime.”

  “Yeah, we’ll be sure to do that.” Blake nodded vigorously. “Every chance we get, in fact.”

  Wynn punched him on the shoulder and started back to her post. “How did you ever end up with someone nice like Martha?”

  Blake let the remark pass as he grabbed Martha to finish the dance. By the time five more numbers were over, Martha was begging for a respite, so Blake led her back to their table and they sat down.

  “God, this thing is hot —” He pulled his mask out a little ways from his face, fanning himself.

  “Take it off for a while, why don’t you?”

  “What! And blow my disguise! What I’m really wondering about is eating with this thing on. You hungry?”

  “Starved.”

  Blake nodded, fixing the death face into place. “Rest that arm. I’ll be back in a second.”

  Martha waved and leaned back in her chair, allowing herself a long, luxurious stretch. It suddenly came to her that she was really enjoying herself — that she wasn’t worrying — and she couldn’t even remember a night anymore when she hadn’t been afraid. Maybe this whole thing had been blown out of proportion after all — and it really was just a prank, someone playing a sick joke — and Dennis really had died a year ago — and the calls, the awful fears, all just unfortunate coincidences. She believed that could happen — that it did happen — and maybe it was time to start accepting that she’d just been an innocent victim — Story of my life, Martha Stevenson in the wrong place at the wrong time….

  Having come to some kind of resolution at last, Martha smiled and stretched again, letting her eyes wander lazily over the dancing shadows on the floor … the fiendish orange grins throwing bizarre shapes up the walls….

  “Martha —”

  “Oh, Wynn, you scared me again! You’ve got to stop sneaking up on me like that —”

  “Martha — oh God, Martha — he’s back —”

  The hands on her arm were clamped so tightly that Martha winced. She struggled to turn in her chair, and the green witch face was twisted in fear, the mascara-ringed eyes nearly bulging from Wynn’s head.

  “What?” Martha repeated dumbly. “What
did you —?”

  “Dennis!” Wynn whimpered. “I saw him, Martha — I saw Dennis!”

  The blood froze in Martha’s veins. She looked down stupidly at Wynn’s fingers cutting into her arm … up at Wynn’s horrified features. “Oh … my God … are you sure? Are you —?”

  “In the crowd!” Wynn’s voice sank to a terrified whisper. “I looked up and he was standing there — just standing there — watching me!”

  Martha’s mind wouldn’t work. She pulled on Wynn’s hands, her words jumbled and slow. “Are you positive? How could it be, it can’t be, it —”

  “I don’t know how long he’d been standing there, but when he realized I’d seen him, he just disappeared — he —” She gave Martha a shake. “Martha — he could be anywhere! Why is he here, Martha? He’s dead! Why is he here?”

  “Wynn — calm down — let’s find Blake —”

  “Oh, God, what am I going to do!” Wynn turned from side to side, all reason surrendered to panic, and Martha grabbed her by the shoulders.

  “Wynn, we’ve got to find Blake and Greg — just calm down —”

  “Where are they? Hurry, Martha —”

  “Blake went to get us some food. Didn’t you see him?”

  Wynn shook her head mindlessly. “No — I didn’t see anyone — just … Dennis —”

  “Come oh.” Steering Wynn firmly in front of her, Martha threaded her way through the grotesque throng, craning her head, trying to spot Blake. Finding anyone was hopeless in this mess, she realized with a sinking feeling, and already Wynn was cold to the touch. How much more, Martha wondered — how much more of this can she take? She thought of yelling, but the music was so loud, she could barely hear herself think. It could be anyone…. Wynn stumbled and Martha righted her again before they both fell. Where was Blake — and Greg? In the awful, throbbing darkness all the ghoulish faces looked alike — evil and deadly — It can’t be Dennis … it’s impossible … oh God, he’s not dead!

  “I’m going to be sick,” Wynn mumbled, and Martha barely caught the words before she felt the heaving of Wynn’s body.

  “Go on into the bathroom.” Martha gave her a push. “You’ll be safe there. I’ll try to find Blake and Greg.”

  “Come with me!”

  “No, Wynn, we’ve got to find the boys — we’ve got to get some help!”

  Wynn nodded, her hand clamped over her mouth, and Martha watched her staggering drunkenly through the mob, disappearing at last down the hall that led to the restrooms.

  She felt like she was trapped in a snake pit. An insane asylum. The worst kind of nightmare. On every side of her demonic faces laughed and leered, pinning her in, blocking her escape.

  “Blake!” She cupped her hands around her mouth, and shouted, feeling foolish, knowing it was useless. The faces still laughed, mocking her. She shoved her way through them, elbowing people aside. If Dennis is here, then he’s after me … I’m the one he wants…. I’m the one he wanted all along….

  From the farthest corner of her brain she heard her name being called — but still — still — it didn’t register at first. And when it finally sank in, there was only the briefest flash of hope that it was Blake, until slowly she realized that it was the lead singer of the band — the singer interrupting the song — nodding at a masked figure near the stage and saying again into the microphone: “Martha Stevenson. Martha Stevenson? Hey, Martha, you’ve got a phone call in the locker rooms — Martha Stevenson?”

  A general chorus of catcalls and whistles followed her as she ran — and then she was stumbling into the back room and grabbing the receiver from a bored chaperone who used that opportunity to escape for refreshments.

  “Hello?” she gasped. “Hello, this is Martha —”

  And he laughed.

  He laughed and he laughed, even though the effort left him breathless, and the laugh was quiet and horrible and smug while Martha screamed into the phone —

  “You leave me alone! Whoever you are, do you hear me? You —”

  “There’s no one home, Elizabeth,” he said. “It’s Halloween … and they’re all dead.”

  My God … my God, no! “What have you done to Conor! What have you done to him!”

  “Trick or treat, Elizabeth,” the voice whispered.

  It wasn’t laughing anymore.

  Chapter 17

  It was like one of those horrible dreams where you ran and got nowhere, and screamed but nobody heard….

  Martha didn’t even remember getting from the locker room back to the gym — suddenly she was at the door and running outside, and she wondered desperately how she’d managed to fight her way through the crowds. Rain was coming down in sheets, and as she stood there crying helplessly, someone called her name and grabbed her from behind.

  “Martha —” It was Blake’s voice behind the mask, the face of Death, and Martha pulled away with a cry. “Hey, whoa, what is it? Didn’t you hear me calling you back there? What’s —”

  “I’ve got to go home!” Martha sobbed. “Something’s happened to Conor!”

  “What?” Blake spun around as Wynn ran out behind him. “Here she is, Wynn — I found her —”

  “Martha, what’s the —?” Wynn stopped in her tracks as if some sense warned her of what she didn’t want to hear.

  “You were right, Wynn!” Martha’s voice rose, practically hysterical. “I just got a phone call — and he said Conor was dead!”

  “Right about what?” Blake sounded totally baffled. “Would you two mind telling me what’s going on?”

  “You won’t believe me!” Wynn cried.

  “Wynn,” Blake’s face went serious, “come on now —”

  “I saw Dennis!”

  “He didn’t die like everyone thought — he’s the one who’s been threatening me — he thinks I’m Elizabeth —” Martha joined in.

  Blake’s head was spinning between them; he took a step back as if he’d been struck.

  “What … what are you saying?”

  “I can’t explain now!” Martha nearly screamed at him. “Take me home, Blake — please!”

  “Wynn, where’s Greg?” Blake demanded, but even as Wynn shook her head, he was running back into the gym.

  Wynn put her arms around Martha, and they clung to each other.

  “Oh, Wynn — if Conor’s hurt, I’ll never forgive myself —”

  Wynn had never sounded so terrified. “What’s happening?”

  Hell, Martha wanted to say, hell is what’s happening, but at that moment Blake and Greg burst out onto the walkway and herded them to Blake’s car. In another minute they were racing on the blacktop out of town.

  “Damn it, watch the road!” Greg snapped as they skidded around a curve. “It’s slick as hell out here. Now, will someone please tell me what’s going —”

  “Okay, okay, I’ve got it under control.” Blake swerved the car, throwing them all to one side, then wiped angrily at the foggy windshield. “Use a rag Qn this, will you? I can’t see where I’m going.”

  Muttering to himself, Greg searched through the glove box, then wiped a handful of tissues across the glass, leaving strips of soggy paper. Martha, clenching Wynn’s hand for dear life, had a sudden crazy urge to laugh — in all the excitement they’d forgotten to take off their masks — a gypsy, a witch, and an executioner all bound for fate in a car driven by Death….

  A squeal of tires jolted her back to the present — as lightning crackled dangerously close, Blake saw the fallen tree limb just in time to jerk the car and miss it. Greg cursed under his breath and wedged himself back against the door.

  “You’re going to kill us all, you know that?”

  It could be anyone … anyone….

  “Oh, Conor,” Martha whispered, “please don’t be dead….” And as they reached the house at last, she saw the light in Conor’s window.

  “Martha — wait!”

  Martha heard Blake’s shout as she jumped from the still-moving car — Ripping off her mask
, she felt the slosh of mud and water as she ran heedlessly up the drive and burst through the front door —

  “Conor!” she screamed. “Conor!”

  And the silence was lifetimes long, as she stumbled up the stairs, fell out onto the landing —

  “Conor!”

  “Martha?” His voice came back — hoarse and weak — but alive — and footsteps came rushing into the lower hall and she heard Conor pulling on his clothes. “What are you doing home? What’s going on?”

  She was halfway through his door when the lights went out.

  She heard voices, muffled and surprised, bodies falling over one another in the dark —

  She heard Conor searching for the light switch.

  She heard the soft sliding sound in the wall.

  For one agonizing instant she couldn’t place it, couldn’t quite recognize what it was — what it meant —

  Until she finally moved into Conor’s room —

  And knew that they weren’t alone.

  It was then that the icy pinpricks started up her arms, turning her spine to jelly, raising the hair at the back of her neck —

  “Conor?” she whispered.

  Something moved deep in the shadows. Something that wasn’t Conor. Something that seemed to have stepped out of the wall and now waited to see what they would do.

  As Martha stood there, blind and helpless, the bodies recovered themselves from the first floor and began to stumble up the stairs. And one of them shouted her name —

  In that instant the shadows gathered and sprang. Martha heard a groan, and there was a soft hiss of metal slashing darkness — as something fell beside her, Conor’s hand came out of nowhere and closed around her own —

  “Come on, Martha — hurry!”

  She let him pull her like a rag doll. She heard his hand frantically groping along the wall.

  Wet fingers slid over her ankle.

  Shrieking, she pitched forward into sudden nothingness, crumpling down into a tiny space of darkness. She sensed that they were in a passageway of some kind, but she couldn’t figure out how they’d gotten there. Martha could feel Conor’s body pressed against her, hear his hoarse struggle to breathe — and then she could hear the wall — the wall! — sliding shut and hands beating on the other side, and Conor’s urgent whisper, “We’ve got to run, Martha — we’re trapped behind the wall —”